Tuesday, July 31, 2012

“Hey Ho, Fat Momma Like Football”

True orphans have the worst lot in life,
Few of them get to fly with the Pan.
But Fat Momma skinny boys,
Have a very hard go, living in a home with no man.

Fat Momma say “be Fat Momma’s football hero!”

Skinny boy gets hit all over the field,
Like having a mean ole coot at home!
Waif boys no get to catch n throw,
Coach rolls them out like they be slaves in Rome.

Fat Momma say “you better like girls, you BETTER like girls.”

Skinny boy forgets to like anything,
Wishes he could just play in the yard with a bird,
Then he flies away - laws he fly a ways away
When he hear Fat Momma say “my boy’s no nerd!”

Hey ho, Fat Momma skinny boy gone.

Monday, July 30, 2012

"Icebergs Only Melt for Broken Hearts"

Fl00zie Fran met Dapper Dan
In a setting their mother's would not like.
But, the parlor place aside, something good took
Between the crook and the snook.

(Everyone wants to fit a couple into
Their own Prince C & Sleeping B myth,
Yet the street-wise and the oh-mys
Combined into something dope legit)

Its like...

People that never travel seem to know all the
Boring details of exotic locales just as
Tylenol PM couples become experts on sleep
Without ever realizing they are costumed sheep.


FF & DD get married in a drive-thru
By a burly black velvet stubbled chef
Flanked by Norman from Oklahoma-
Holding chicken strips for the next car.

Then... while everyone else sees red and dread,
Eighty great years pass and the pair's great advice?
Well its not "don't do anything you'll regret"...Its
"Don't regret anything you do!"

"Six Thousand Words"

Thirteen hundred and eighty seven
Adjectives describing my love
For you and I never even got to the letter P…
I ran out of word vouchers.

Why must everything be important to all?
I liked it better when we could have importances
Shared by two, or a few, or a crew in a pew.
Not this universal happatriot resolved mass.

Meeting in the shadows thins, romanced on
Atkins diet when we live on daylight’s rim,
Working to live yet living to work while
Monuments of our bravado crush our hearts.

Can you love a man unable to credit the necessary words
Proven sufficient to pillow your beauty and willow your senses?
(I ink my pen with blood dyed tears, my red elixir
Seeps from wounds born of segregation education)

Once a source of ridicule and debate, was the perceived
Coloring of different states, reflecting varying levels of cowbrain.
You live in your red and I in my blue as Deep Purple Haze
Monitors our thoughts and limits our

Sunday, July 29, 2012

"Who Cries for Rome"

…The team discovered four women hiding in back rooms attached to the library. Patti Nielson, the art teacher from the 911 call, had crept into a cupboard in the break room. She had squatted in the cupboard for three more hours, knees aching, unaware the danger had passed. Three other faculty hid farther back. An officer instructed one to put her hand on his shoulder and follow him out, staring directly at his helmet, to minimize exposure to the horror.  ---from Columbine by Dave Cullen

What great behemoth once stood in this erstwhile neutered Wal-Mart parking pasture?

Some remarkable Titan now crumbled and humbled by the unstoppable army of time?

As the Visigoths heard the preamble of The Roman Empire’s backbone cracking,

Was there anyone to mourn the fall of once unstoppable army of the Caesars?

Will we hunker until our knees throb, waiting to be rescued simultaneously as others that are waiting to be rescued by us are muted as they whimper underneath wooden shields?

Focus, yes…

Look straight ahead, yes…

Be goal oriented, yes…

Don’t let you gaze stray, no…

This medusa-alley of modern living will do worse things than turn you to stone, or render Your opulent body into a quaint mound of NaCl, yes…

This could cause a reckoning within your will that challenges the acceptance of diminished expectations…

No one should cry for us as we are all-consumed with crying for ourselves while mesmerized by the soulless eyes of our ignoble acrylic busts displayed on plastic mantelpieces encasing LCD flames. Meanwhile a scratching sound pervades the front window…

Can you teach that which you cannot value?

Who cries for Rome?

Monday, July 9, 2012

"The Flemish Poet" -original-

Circles of fire essence
Lower us to a harsh shore.
“Why are we here?”
The muse nods east.

Rocky cliffs support a castle
Holding a solitary light
In the tallest pinnacle,
Resembling a flexi-straw.

Ascending, learning that witness
Is required this wintry night,
Off the cruel cold coast of
Herr Belgium’s sonnet beach.

Singing wafts in sea breeze,
Songs of tempered temperament,
Overwrought with juxtaposed meaning.
The mists surrender, revealing His shrine.

Apex moon gate glows, parting our years.
Towered, we witness the Flemish Poet recite anon.
Beatitude the pilgrim, pogrom the nihilist,
Enhanced Spirit, quicksilver oration—

“Creator of Light,
Behold your Servant.

My guileless song erases
Hastening godless doubts.

Foes reap portioned enmity, while
Hosts reclaim possessed soul powers.

All waters flow truer as
The source well nears.

Tra la la la la my darling,
Tra la la la la my dear.

Tra la la la la, I’m going,
Tra la la la la, wind blowing,

Westward, from the wasteland of grey havens,
‘Twill reunite in Elvin Valinor.”

Moon gate returns us, now
Beach-based, facing that Glorious spire.
Rejoin our boat for England crossing,
Bid the Flemish Poet adieu.

Thursday, July 5, 2012


The plan had flaws.
They both knew that
To save their cause-
 End tit-for-tat!

Work must be, so,
He and she each
Small means yet go-
Combined they teach.

Play needs real time
And true know-how.
Joy’s door design,
Yields real smiles now.

Reeds sing greetings,
Dusky night calls-
“Revived meetings,
New marriage laws.”

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

"Phantom Hill"

Each year, for one night,
Mists part in that great field-
Exposing an ascending mound
Littered, yet ordered,
With tattooed markers of Death.
Bodies draped with uniforms,
Spanning modern eras and geographies,
Rise from their damp vestibules,
Then float a ways, one into another,
Exchanging greetings bereft of malice.
Thunderous conversations rasp
Across the night’s abyss, succumbing as
Ricocheting spasms of dawn flare,
Accompanied by invisible trumpets
Sounding Taps, rather than Reveille…
The pasture resumes a lolling flatness,
No remains of Phantom Hill
Or the denizens of Death’s City
Remain in view- replaced anon by
Unmarked cows grazing unmarked graves.